In my travels far and WIDE, I have seen fat people do some really funny shit, usually unintentionally, or have funny shit happen to them on account of their abnormal size, weight, girth and texture. Can’t forget texture.
– Unknowingly dribble food bits and drink down their chins. A fatty completely oblivious to the organic particulates accumulating outside his mouth is a comedic sight to behold.
– Knock over chairs and rattle tables as they were shimmying into seats at restaurants. I once witnessed a fatty so humongous and ill-equipped to navigate her own circumference turn over an entire four-seater table in slo-mo, as her massiveness rounded the bend and she settled her planetary obstruction into her pitiably undersized chair. The table came crashing to the ground, spilling dinnerware and a sad candle onto the floor with a loud clatter.
– Fart with the slightest exertion at the waist. No matter how uptight you are, you won’t be able to restrain a chortle when you hear a fatty rip a sonorous cheek-flapper as she’s bending over a mere inch to straighten a wrinkle on her tent pants. And lest you think you can politely hide your amusement, remember that a fatty’s fart is ten times as loud as a normal weight person’s fart, given that the fatty’s back draft has multiple zones of blubber to travel before final release. You’d think this would act to muffle the offending blast, but instead, like a geothermal well, pressure builds until the equivalent of a refinery’s worth of gas has parted the outer ass layer, and the slapping of cheese-cleaved butt roasts produces a ten-piece trumpet tremolo worthy of the Philharmonic.
– Break a chair. Yes, despite its clichéd nature, I remember clear as the day the time a fatty sat her bulk on a chair and one of the back legs gave out, flinging her backwards like a post-breach whale. She landed with such adiposity that… and I swear this as Lucifer is my unholy mentor… she bounced a little upon impact.
– Take a direct hit from an out-of control bicyclist and barely nudge as the guy on the bike goes flying in the opposite direction. A particularly overgrown specimen of fatty — a man weighing in the arena of 400 pounds, mostly confined to the belly and, steatopygially, to the buttocks — was winged by a bicyclist who, inexplicably, didn’t see the fatty before it was too late to avoid collision. The fatty took the brunt of the front wheel’s tangential blow to the bull’s-eye on his hanging midsection and fell back two steps, still miraculously on his feet, while the bicycler, and his bike, ricocheted like a bank shot pool ball at a tidy 45 degree angle from point of contact, finishing their macabre pirouette in a heap on the ground, front wheel futilely spinning in the air, grasping for asphalt that wasn’t there. The fatty did eventually fall to his feet, but only well after the dust had cleared, ostensibly to catch his breath from the blow’s radiating shock waves of pain, thirty seconds post-crash, that were just reaching his delicate innards. Bystanders rushed to help the bicyclist but assistance for the fatty was, of course, beyond anyone’s ability, given that no witness appeared able to deadlift 400 pounds of dangerously shifting weight.
– Absorb a sunburn in a perfect circle on the abdomen. A fatty female who, incomprehensibly to those with sense, was wearing a bikini and sunbathing on her back, stood up to reveal a bright red spot that circumnavigated the entirety of her yeast-risen belly. The perfect geometry and smoothness of edge was astounding, and gave her front the look of a red-rumped baboon in heat.
– Smoosh flip-flops into micron-thin atomic layers. Take a look at a fatty’s flip-flops sometime. Notice how wafer-thin the soles are. Then laugh as you wonder if the flip-flop’s atomic lattice was pressurized into a new periodic table element.
– Push seven large, sweating and grunting, adult men to the breaking point during the Horah. No further elucidation needed.
– Since this is a non-denominational shaming session, I once saw a fatty with tits so grossly inflated completely bury her Madonna-esque crucifix in folds of breast blubber. Jesus wheezed.
And my favorite fatty funny….
– Listen to a fat chick expound at length about her “great catch” boyfriend, only to watch her unscripted surprise when he showed up, apparently uninvited, at the social gathering we were attending, and thereby proved without a doubt, by evidence of both his notable lack of swagger and blank personality, just how far he actually was from being a “great catch”. But the best part was when, later, she asked for a sip of his beer and then proceeded to chug nearly half the bottle, leaving him with a sorry puddle of dregs at the bottom, which he stared at forlornly for an uncomfortably long spell.
Some people, probably fat asses themselves, with a constitutional aversion to the idea of mocking fat fucks for fun and aesthetic profit, have forwarded CH a study* which claims to show that fat shaming doesn’t work as a method to persuade fatties to slim down. To that, I say, that’s not shaming! You want shaming, I’ll give you shaming. Real shaming, not this pussyfoot crap based on an amorphous concept like “discrimination” favorable to Narrative guidelines.
*There is a major flaw with the “fat shaming” study. Specifically, the researchers relied on self-reporting questionnaires that asked whether participants had experienced discrimination. Anyone who is familiar with the hamster rationalizing of assorted losers in life, such as fat grotesqueries and chisel-chinned feminists, will tell you how adept those people are at blaming anyone but themselves for their wretched wretchedness. So it should be no surprise that a bunch of fat shits waddled into a quiet study to fill out a form with cheetos-stained fingers blaming the equivalent of THE MAN for their love of wolfing down greasy fried food and pints of ice cream.
Now, if you want real shaming that actually BITES, try shaming fat shits with methods proven to work. Charge them more to use public transit. Laugh openly at them. Make a spectacle of them. Flay their souls for the mirth of the cheering, howling mob, a la Chateau Heartiste. Sneer at, belittle, and viciously mock them. Or, if you prefer the crueler, subtler art of soul shivving, converse with them in innuendo and sly entendre that lets them know, forever and ever, how repulsive they are to normal people.
If, after years of this psychological torture, most fatties don’t find the fortitude to push away from the table, then you may say that shaming doesn’t work. But I suspect, rather strongly based on real world observation, that many fatties would discover in themselves a hidden untapped well of willpower, and lose the weight. For those fatties who prefer to abandon all hope under the social shaming onslaught and retreat to a dank bedroom to eat until they explode, well, consider it culling the herd. Evolution in action. The untimely dispatch of a species’ deformed members gets a bad rap, but it’s a good thing for the species’ survival as a whole. And the slim phoenix that rises from the rendered ashes will be a good thing for lovers, such as CH, of truth and beauty and sexy babes who can inspire authentic boners.
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